The End
by Sweet Jelly Hearts
Summary: Arthur, humble owner of that one antique store across the street, meets a customer who only buys old books. It wouldn't be a problem, if only Arthur knew what the man did with them.


The bell over the door tinkled cheerfully as a customer walked in. Arthur forced himself to sit up straight and greet them politely, but he was wondering what in the fuck could possibly possess someone to brave today's sweltering heat to visit the tiny antique shop with no fucking air conditioning on the shitty side of downtown where nobody shopped because no matter how reputable the development association insisted they were, the shops always had a run-down look to them...

But none of them mattered at the moment, because despite all of those factors working against him, Arthur still managed to get at least a few customers a day, usually curious tourists who never committed to buying any big ticket items, or faithful regulars who seemed to exclusively furnish and decorate their houses with Arthur's wares, or smelly hipsters who loved anything "vintage," but never bought any of the more expensive items the older customers ate up.

Arthur ruled out the possibility of this guy being a hipster almost immediately. The glasses on the stranger's face were wire-rimmed and most likely necessary for normal vision, not to mention he seemed relatively clean. And the guy couldn't have been a regular, because none of his regulars were tan, and none of his regulars were young, and none of his regulars smiled so goddamn much, especially when it was pushing a hundred degrees outside and they knew full well that the only form of climate control Arthur had in this shop was the single fan slowly oscillating behind the till, messing up his already messy hair but never actually cooling him off.

A tourist, then, Arthur decided, and an obnoxiously cheerful one at that, although aside from the smile plastered on his face, the guy wasn't half bad as far as attractiveness went. Physical appearances aside, Arthur knew as the guy wandered further into the shop that he wouldn't be buying anything, and so he settled for quietly broiling in the heat that was minutely magnified by the second body milling about. He imagined a scenario in which the tourist actually bought something—something expensive that would make up for the lost customers on this hot day so that Arthur could afford to buy an A/C unit, or just a few more fans, anything to make the heat more bearable—

"How much are these?"

Arthur struggled not to scowl and plastered a somewhat pleasant expression on his sweaty face as he looked over what the tourist had. And they were books. Books, books, and more books. Smelly old tomes filled his arms, haphazardly chosen by the looks of it, some big and some small, with varying topics that nobody cared about anymore—obsolete scientific texts, accounts of historical events so well-studied and documented that they were no longer seen as accurate, even fiction written in different languages. Arthur had skimmed some of them before, but he found them dull, despite being quite the bookworm. He wondered what this guy was doing with so many meaningless books.

"A dollar apiece for hardbacks, fifty cents for paperbacks," he said, at least acting a little bit friendly. But the distinction seemed hardly necessary, as all of the books the guy had were hardbacks.

"Shit," the guy muttered, heaving the books onto the counter and scrabbling for his wallet. "I've only got a ten, is that okay?"

"If you narrow it down to ten books," Arthur said, his tone turning brusque. "I don't deal with hagglers. Talk to the artists bumming on Main if you want to haggle."

"Fine, fine, sorry," the guy said with a lighthearted chuckle, acquiescing quickly. He picked up the first ten books on the stack and left the rest. "I'll have these, then. I'll be back for the others. Ten dollars; here." He handed over the money. Arthur eyed the customer warily, but took the currency nonetheless and bagged the ten books.

"Have a nice day," he said none too sincerely. "Please, come again."

And goddammit, the guy grinned—grinned pleasantly and cheerfully in the disgusting, miserable heat as he took the books, the fan behind the till blowing into his face and lifting his hair like he was in a fucking shampoo commercial while Arthur's bangs were matted to his forehead with sweat. "Thanks!" he said. "You, too! See ya later!" And then he left, the stupid bell jingling when the door opened and jangling when it slammed shut.

Arthur huffed and wiped at his face, making a point of not looking at the guy's ass as he walked out.

True to his word, the tourist came back multiple times in the following weeks, but at this point it was obvious he wasn't a tourist. Arthur's temper cooled down with the weather, and today it was raining, the air damp yet pleasant. And the tourist, so far Arthur's only customer on account of the rain, was sopping wet when he came in, his clothes clinging to his skin and his hair dripping onto the (previously clean) floor. Before he could think, Arthur heard himself offering the man a towel, and the guy grinned and accepted. He ran upstairs to his tiny apartment above the shop and retrieved a towel, handing it to the still-smiling tourist.

"Thanks," he said. Arthur grunted in response.

"You were dripping all over my clean floor," he said, as if the act of kindness needed that justification.

"All right, then, Negative Nancy. Don't get your panties in a bunch." And the man laughed, and Arthur was about to ask what was so damn funny, but then he remembered the name of the shop. Nancy's. Right.

"Does a Nancy even work here?" the man went on. "I only ever see you in here."

"Not anymore," answered Arthur. "She died and left this to me." He gestured to the shop with a broad, sweeping motion of his arms that suggested grandeur, but his tone said otherwise. "Dusty books, rusted knives, and tarnished silver. What's not to love?"

"The smell of old people that probably sticks to you wherever you go?" the man teased, but the way he said it, it didn't sound like such a bad thing. "Really, though, I would kill for a job like yours. The history in every square inch of this place…"

"The novelty wears off, I assure you," Arthur muttered.

"Well, I never said anything in here was novel," the man joked, and Arthur almost laughed. Almost.

They chatted some more, and Arthur showed the man around the shop—really showed him—pointing out items of historical importance, the things that never sold, the things that flew off the shelves like they were going out of style (which, Arthur added, they had been for the past few decades), and before they knew it, it was closing time. Arthur could scarcely believe he'd just spent an entire afternoon doing nothing but talking to a stranger. He never even learned the man's name. Usually he would have counted an encounter like this one as a waste of time, but he couldn't see it like that. Not when he was in such a good mood, and when the man was so quick and funny and handsome, and when the rain poured endlessly from the gray sky. He didn't want the day to end.

But it did. The last of the rain dripped from the leaky gutter joint, and the man went home, and Arthur noticed that he hadn't even bought any books.

The tourist-who-definitely-wasn't-a-tourist didn't come back to the store. And Arthur wasn't worried—of course not. He didn't wonder where the man had gone. Maybe he really was a tourist and had gone back to wherever he came from. It made sense, and Arthur settled with it, no matter how his stomach turned at the thought of never seeing the man again.

And then early one drizzly morning—too early for any sane person to want to go shopping at an antique store—Arthur heard a tap-tap-tapping, and no, it wasn't a goddamn raven. He ignored the sound, figuring it was some hungover bastard looking for a place to puke, or an overly-enthusiastic collector. But the tapping didn't stop, and even turned into banging, and Arthur realized it wouldn't stop without some interference.

And so he got out of bed, put on some pants (don't judge), and threw open one of the windows overlooking the street. "Hey!" he yelled below. "Shut up down there! Can you read? The little 'Hours of Operation' sign? Do you see five in the morning listed as today's opening time?" And then the person banging on the door looked up and stepped back with a wide grin, and Arthur's breath caught in his throat.

"Hey, you!" the man called, waving with one hand. The other was occupied by a bundle of something. And he laughed, the sound musical, and he looked sheepish. "I don't even know your name!"

"You!" Arthur cried back, because he didn't know the man's name, either. "What the hell are you doing here so early?" Where have you been all these weeks? he didn't say.

"I wanted to stop by as… not a customer for once. Don't you have a doorbell?"

Arthur huffed and raced downstairs, the keys jangling noisily as he fumbled to unlock the door, and he made a mental note to hit the gym at some point, because one flight of stairs shouldn't be able to make his heart beat quite as quickly as it currently drummed. "What are you doing here so early?" he asked again. "And in the rain, no less. Are you insane?"

"I told you already," the man said, and his face was red. "I don't want to be a customer today." His hands were behind his back along with the bundle Arthur had seen from the window.

"What do you have there?" Arthur asked, and the man shuffled his feet and turned an even darker shade of red.

"Uh, well, I figured you'd wanna know what I was doing with all the books, and so I just kinda threw something together, and I was wondering, uh…" The man slowly took the bundle out from behind his back, and Arthur saw that it wasn't much of a bundle after all.

It was a bouquet.

A bouquet that crinkled like newspaper because it was newspaper, and the flowers were twisted from yellowed pages that collectively might have informed the reader about a number of boring topics, but now were serving a more interesting purpose.

"It's funny how you mentioned bumming artists on Main when I first got books from you because… well, I am one." He paused, as if to collect his thoughts, and continued. "And even though you didn't treat me too nice that first day, I thought, 'I bet he's just in a bad mood. Anyone would be grumpy on a day like today.' And when I got back home, I couldn't stop thinking of ways to maybe make you smile. And then a few weeks ago when it was raining so much and you were smiling and laughing, I thought, 'He's got the most wonderful laugh.' And also, 'He must really like the rain.' And so I kinda made this and waited for it to rain again."

Throughout the rambling, Arthur found his arms lifting almost of their own accord, and he took the bouquet of paper flowers from the man. They were getting wrinkled in the little bit of rain that splattered on the petals, and the ink on the newspaper that was wrapped around them was running, but the warping only made the flowers look more real.

"And so I guess I was wondering if maybe you'd think about uh… if you want to, would you maybe… go out with me?"

And Arthur shook his head, not to convey a negative response, but rather to clear his head of the confusion and shock that came from the incredible suddenness of the question. "I don't even know your name," he said, as if it mattered.

"I don't know yours," the man said quickly, hopefully.

"Arthur Kirkland."

"Alfred Jones."

"And you want to date me." It wasn't a question, but simply the confirmation of a fact, and the fact made him giddy. But his joy came to a reeling halt when he realized Alfred shouldn't have known about his sexuality. Who told him? How many people knew? "How did you even know I was gay?" he asked quietly, as if anyone could be listening. As if the word could get out and ruin his livelihood.

Alfred shrugged. "I didn't know. Just a shot in the dark."

And that was a good thing, Arthur supposed, but his heart was tight and his stomach was knotted, because he knew this wouldn't work. He fidgeted with the bouquet for a moment more, admiring the hard work that must have gone into it. The time, the care, the affection put into each paper blossom… His eyes burned, but he wouldn't let himself cry. Grudgingly, he handed the flowers back to Alfred.

The man looked crushed.

"What are you—?"

"I can't accept these, Alfred," Arthur interrupted. Fuck, it sounded so mechanical the way he said it. "It's a very nice gesture, and I appreciate your feelings, but I can't accept."

"Why not?" Poor Alfred looked more confused than anything. "Did I do something wrong? Should I have come by at a different time?"

"It's nothing you did. I just can't afford to have my clients learn about… well… this is the south."

"You're ashamed of me."

"I'm not!"

"But it's a college town!" Alfred said in disbelief. "Nobody cares if you dig guys!"

"Keep it down!" Arthur hissed. "My customers are different from yours. Mine are older. Religious. Conservative. If they find out…"

Alfred seemed to finally understand. "If they find out, they won't shop at your store anymore."

A lump had formed in Arthur's throat rendering him incapable of non-choked speech, so he nodded.

"You'll go out of business."

"Please don't tell anyone." Goddammit, his voice cracked.

"I won't."

"You swear?"

"On my mother's grave."

They were silent after that. Alfred's grip tightened on the bouquet until the newspaper was crumpled in his fists.

"You can still stop by the store," Arthur offered hopefully. "We can still be friends."

"Yeah."

But they both knew it wouldn't happen.

The rain continued to fall, and Arthur felt himself slowly beginning to hate it.

* * *

_Dearest readers,_

_We knew this day would come from the beginning._

_It's been nearly three years since I published my first fanfiction on this website. (It's been longer since I started reading fanfiction in general.) In those three years, the massive amount of love, support, and friendship from this site helped me learn and grow to be the writer—no—the person I am today. In the years before fanfiction, I couldn't imagine myself actually enjoying writing, let alone for an audience. Now I'm going to college in a month, dead-set on a degree in Creative Writing, no matter what my parents say. I want to write for a living. It's what I love._

_And that is why I can no longer write for you. I cannot publish fanfiction professionally, and for each major story idea I use with characters from somebody else's series, there's one more story that can no longer be submitted to a scholarship competition, or published in a literary magazine, or expanded upon to become a best-selling novel._

_Put shortly, I've grown up a lot, and I'm glad I was able to grow up with such a supportive community. Your reviews and alerts and favorites have all egged me on, one at a time telling me, "You're good at this." "I like your writing." "Write more, please." And it's the positive reinforcement I needed when I was just starting out, looking for approval when I was still too embarrassed to show people in real life. Looking back, I cringe at what I used to write, but even then there were people who liked it, who encouraged me to continue, and I can't thank them all enough for where it got me._

_This is the last story I will be publishing on Fanfiction. I know I've left several stories unfinished, and for that, I am sincerely sorry. Maybe one day I will come back to complete them, but I feel like that day is very, very far away._

_Thanks again, everyone. It truly, honestly means the world to me._

_Love,_

_~Jel_


End file.
